


War is Coming...

by amarix (coryphenis)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Post-A Game of Thrones, The Silent Sisters (ASOIAF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:16:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6827260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coryphenis/pseuds/amarix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... and with it, fire and blood.</p>
<p><i>The War of Kings, or so it came to be called, was a time of death, politics, betrayal, and, somewhat unsurprisingly, romance. But the part that Jórunn Snow has to play in it is far greater than she could ever realize.</i><br/>- Ysolde Akarsha, historian</p>
            </blockquote>





	War is Coming...

**Author's Note:**

> To clear some things up before this shitshow begins:  
>  **1.** Yes, I am writing an OC into the ASoIaF universe. No, I do not care. See, I'm trying to get back into writing b/c I've been in kind of a huge creative slump, and Jórunn has been on my mind for several years now. So, why not share her story with all y'all lovely folks?  
>  **2.** This whole thing begins sometime after Ned Stark's death and a bit before Ramsay Bolton shows his fuck-ugly face at Winterfell. This particular group of chapters (I think) will cover about all of ACoK and about half of ASoS, but that is subject to change at any time, tbh.

 

>   _"And so, it was with a heavy heart that Jórunn Snow accompanied the bones of her father back to Winterfell. It is said that for every tear she shed, a winter rose as blue as the evening sky sprouted and bloomed for her grief."_
> 
> \- Ysolde Arkasha, The War of Kings: A History of Westeros

 

* * *

 

Jórunn's eyes wander as she and the other Silent Sisters ride in a solemn procession down the King's Road to Winterfell. The scenery is quickly becoming familiar, memories from years past resurfacing in the wake of landmarks and rocky fields. It strikes Jórunn as odd—the fields are empty. Normally, the farms are teeming with activity around this time; the season of harvest is fast approaching. Thinking this, a thought hits her.  _Oh. I suppose that Robb took many of the men with him when he went south._

The confusion fades into embarrassment, the thought now seeming rather silly to her. A chill wind blows in from the north, and Jórunn revels in it even as her companions shiver and pull their cloaks closer to their bodies. One of the Elders, Mother Marguerite, cannot stop trembling like a autumnal leaf, so Jórunn shrugs out of her woolen cloak and leans over in the cart to drape it over the older woman's thin, bony shoulders. Marguerite smiles her thanks, honey-brown eyes bright. 

_That is one of the nicer things about the Sisters,_ Jórunn reflects. _There is no need for words without meaning behind them. No need for words emptier than the crypt at Winterfell._ The novice takes a sharp breath, heart contracting painfully. As much as she has appreciated the lax expectations in regards to speech (actions  _do_ speak louder than words, Jórunn's found), she's missed conversing with her siblings, half or otherwise. 

_Gods,_  Jórunn realizes,  _I even miss Sansa's constant jabbering._  

This sudden awareness catches her off guard and Jórunn is more eager than ever to see her childhood home, smell the air, touch the people. Even though she is no longer a child at ten-and-seven, the word 'home' still conjures memories of riding horses with Robb, of scrambling over the rooftops with Bran, sparring with Arya, singing Rickon to sleep, of teasing Sansa; laying in bed with her twin's warmth at her back on snowy winter nights. _Yes,_ she thinks, _I've missed them very much._

They crest the rise of a hill and then—

_Winterfell_. 

It stands against the grey morning sky, imposing and regal and everything Jórunn remembers from when she was twelve summers old. Even at such a distance, Jórunn can see the silver, emerald and ebony banners of her House waving in a breeze as if in welcome. A slow smile spreads over her face. As the Sisters and the cart draw closer to the keep, Jórunn is able to make out the details of the emblem on the banners—a snarling direwolf, black over white, running along a thin strip of green. Her throat tightens as she begins to hear the familiar sounds of Mikken working the forge and Ser Roderick Cassel shouting in the training yard along with the clashing of steel-on-steel. Jórunn scrubs at her eyes. She will  _not_ cry. 

The portcullis is already raised by the time the cart reaches Winterfell's outer wall. Jórunn climbs from the cart in order to walk beside it. The main reason she does so, though, is to simply  _feel_ the cobbles beneath her feet again as soon as she can. A few people stop what they are doing to quietly watch the Sisters pass by. Their stares are mildly disconcerting. Jórunn scuffs her left foot against the ground, suddenly uncertain.  _Will they even recognize me?_  

A shout dispels any doubts held in her heart. " _Jórunn_!"


End file.
